


Self-Portrait of the Artist as an Inveterate Liar

by Syrena_of_the_lake



Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Art Forgery, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:33:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21626119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/pseuds/Syrena_of_the_lake
Summary: Kal’Aryn Kazheen had been forging artwork since before the Clone Wars. When he first got an inkling that someone was trailing him, it seemed only natural to plant false clues (although in retrospect, he might have revealed more than he ought). Kal’Aryn fantasized it might be Admiral Daala — she had spunk, and was rather attractive for a sociopath — and was rather bemused to find his pursuer (a usefully ambiguous description, that) was indeed an Imperial Admiral: a blue alien tactical genius named Thrawn. Well. He could work with that.
Relationships: Thrawn/Original Art Forger
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13
Collections: Star Wars Rare Pairs Exchange 2019





	Self-Portrait of the Artist as an Inveterate Liar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [olio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/olio/gifts).



> Thank you for prompting this pairing, olio! I hope you enjoy.

“Every picture is several things: what the artist sees, but also what he thinks about what he sees, and because of that, in a certain sense it is a portrait of himself.”

”You see, in the great days of what are now so reverently called the Old Masters, art was a trade as well.”

\- Robertson Davies, _What’s Bred in the Bone_

* * *

The blue-and-green mottled globe spun and sparkled tantalizingly above the desk. Ss’lani world-orbs were exceedingly rare, due to an unfortunate Imperial tendency to blast real worlds into pieces smaller than the globe hovering in Thrawn’s office. Idly, he wondered if the Emperor collected replicas of worlds he ordered to be destroyed: a ghost galaxy of slagged planets orbiting the black hole of a throne.

Thrawn would have paid a great deal for a world-orb of Alderaan before the Death Star destroyed it. Any created now would be based on holos, which could never capture the full essence of a planet — its atmospheric whorls, the subtle pull of gravity, the solar wind shearing through the ozone layer. The world-orb on Thrawn’s desk was clearly _not_ based on a holo-recording. 

A pity it was a fake.

“Would you like me to have it destroyed, sir?” Lieutenant Graeme was nervous, although she had no reason to be. Thrawn did not make a habit of wanton destruction.

When Thrawn destroyed something, it was with purpose.

“On the contrary. Ensure it is carefully preserved, Lieutenant. This is not genuine Ss’lani,” Thrawn explained, “but it _is_ a classic example of the art. The forger must be talented indeed.”

Graeme nodded. “Do you wish to investigate the provenance, then? Back-trace the dealer?”

“Quietly, Lieutenant.” Thrawn nodded in approval.

“I’ll do it myself, Admiral,” she promised.

* * *

_Once upon a time, and a very good time it was—_

The door chimed, and the playback paused automatically. The bubble-sculpture of swirling colors spun to a halt.

“Visitor for: Kal’Aryn Kazheen ,” announced the door in its staccato monotone. “Species: Bothan. Identity: unknown. Admit or deny?”

“Shavit,” Kal’Aryn muttered.

“Response not recognized,” the door answered. “Admit or deny?”

In sync with the Falleen sculptor’s growing irritation, the miniature nebula of ink, xenon and amallorium twisted and bloomed with ugly hues of red and brown. It looked like a suspended clot of dried blood.

_“Sithspit!_ ”

“Response not recognized,” the door repeated, implacable. “Admit or deny?”

The whole sphere turned murky swamp-green. Kal’Aryn scowled down at it. Zeltron mood bubbles were notoriously sensitive. That was the sixth time Chapter 1 had been interrupted mid stream-of-consciousness. 

Kal’Aryn wiped the gaseous mixture with a brusque gesture and a sigh. “Admit, damn you.”

“Please restate your query.”

Kal’Aryn pressed his fingers to his temples. “You there, droid.” He waved a weary hand. “Go see who is at the door. If they aren’t holding a blaster, then let them in.” He never bothered naming the blasted droids, or keeping track of their model numbers. One mechanical doorstop was no different than the next, he’d always said. Maybe ones with faces were different, but Kal’Aryn had always owned spindly Treadwell repair droids, with many articulated arms and no discernible head. Kal’Aryn preferred it that way. Kept them from looking too sentient. 

He never could stand someone looking over his shoulder while he worked.

The Treadwell trundled over to the door, draping dropcloths over indiscreet projects as it went. Few knew how to contact Kal’Aryn in the first place, and fewer still could find his well-appointed garret in the bowels of Coruscant. Still, in the world of art it paid to be cautious.

“You have an admirer!” blurted the Bothan the moment his snout poked through the door.

“Vok’sa, Elyas,” announced the door belatedly. “Identity confirmed.”

The Treadwell droid flexed an appendage in greeting and nearly obliterated a glassblown vase in the process.

“Watch that!” snapped Kal’Aryn. He could feel his face flushing with telltale color. But then, it was only Elyas. The nosy Bothan already knew too many of his secrets — what was one more minor embarrassment?

“Hullo, Legs.” Elyas patted the droid’s nearest articulated joint. “What’s shaking?”

“Legs” beeped and burbled something unintelligible. Kal’Aryn shook his head in disgust. Why did so many sentients insist on projecting personalities onto glorified toolbelts?

He knew he was leaking pheromones. Judging by how Elyas’s ears were twitching, the Bothan knew it too. 

Well, that’s why Elyas was the dealer — so Kal’Aryn didn’t have to deal with people face to face. 

“You said something about an admirer?” Kal’Aryn channeled what he called his inner Xizor. He had only met the crime lord once — at a gala, back when he was still respectable enough to be invited to such things, and when he was naive enough to believe he belonged there — and he had long admired his distant cousin’s cool calm and easy disdain. After three hundred years bouncing around the galaxy, Kal’Aryn had mastered disdain, at least, even if cool and calm continued to elude him except when he was creating.

“Muckety-muck collector,” Elyas answered belatedly. The Treadwell followed him through the shop like a tooka cat. “Asked for you personally.”

Kal’Aryn’s skin mottled red with alarm. “By _name_?” The Treadwell jittered, narrowly missing a rustic clay pot destined for archaeological greatness on Obroa-skai.

Elyas rolled his eyes. “Of course not. They want a genuine Ss’lani orb.”

“Doesn’t everybody.” 

Elyas’s fur rippled. “They want Alderaan.”

_Doesn’t everyone_ , Kal’Aryn thought bleakly. “The commission had better be worth the risk,” he muttered, taking refuge in irritation. “The Empire is snatching up everything Alderaanian. ‘Confiscating suspected Rebel trafficked goods’ or some such nonsense.”

Elyas shrugged. “So? Drives up the prices. You should see what this nerf-herder is willing to pay.”

“Who is it?” Talk of the Empire always made Kal’Aryn prickly. Not that he had any allegiance to the fool Rebels. Just that so much authority in one place made him... itch.

Elyas shifted. “You know the drill. Friend of a friend of someone with a vested interest...” He spread his hands philosophically. “Who can say?”

Kal’Aryn shook his head, his topknot swaying. “This is a bad idea. There aren’t that many Ss’lani orbs offworld. After that last sale, it would be too much of a coincidence.” 

Elyas’s fur flattened even as his eyebrows rose. “Are you saying _no_ to a commission?”

The Treadwell droid vibrated and chittered something in binary.

It burned Kal’Aryn to agree with a brainless droid, but business was business, despite his misgivings. “No, I’ll do it.” He could feel a warm surge of unflattering carnelian flush across his skin. “Tell me more about this... admirer.”

* * *

Grand Admiral Thrawn stepped back to admire the orb. Held in a stasis field, it spun in sync with precise gravitational forces that no longer existed anywhere in the galaxy. The Ss’lani orb, although counterfeit, was flawless. 

Alderaan had been a beautiful planet.

“This forger has the soul of an artist,” he announced.

“Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Graeme’s face betrayed no emotion. That did not mean an absence of it, however. 

“You disapprove, Lieutenant?”

She hesitated. “Forgery is illegal, sir. Should we not attempt to find and arrest him?”

“What makes you assume the forger is male?”

Thrawn’s estimation of his aide rose when she refused to take the bait.

“I know there are more important allocations of ship’s resources,” she continued, “but if I had a line on the forger, would you want me to pursue... them?”

Thrawn found his gaze drawn back to the world-orb. A phantom sun was shining on the southern continent. Exquisite. It lacked the telltale Ss’lani vibrations in ultraviolet, but the workmanship was nonetheless superb.

“You would have my full approval to proceed, Lieutenant Graeme.”

She saluted but made no move to leave.

“Was there something more, Lieutenant?”

“If, in the course of my investigations, I should run across more forgeries by the same perpetrator...” Graeme raised an eyebrow that might have been called impudent by some Imperial officers.

Thrawn favored her with a rare smile. “Confiscate them as evidence, Lieutenant, by all means. I will also make allocations in case you need to make a more... discreet purchase, as part of your inquiries.”

“Thank you, sir.” She spun on her heel.

“Lieutenant?” Thrawn called softly after her.

Graeme froze.

“Keep me apprised of your progress. _Before_ any arrests are made.” For all her many merits, Graeme did not have an innate appreciation of artistry such as this. And it wouldn’t do for valuable merchandise — or the merchant — to be damaged in transit. 

Thrawn rarely second-guessed himself. But perhaps it would not go amiss to indulge in a little investigating of his own...

* * *

Elyaas pinned his ears back. "Just because I'm Bothan doesn't mean I'm a slicer." His fur stuck up at odd angles, a sure sign the dealer was truly insulted. 

Kal'Aryn didn't much care. "So hire a slicer. I want to know who's after me."

Smoothing his fur, Elyaas tutted. "You're becoming paranoid, old friend. No one is after you."

Falleen were a long-lived species in comparison with most humanoid races, but their natural longevity was frequently offset by dealings with the underworld. No one lived as long as Kal'Aryn without a healthy sense of paranoia. It was one of the many reasons he had never cared for clans like Black Sun. He just wanted to make elegant things... for a profit. He _was_ a businessman, after all. One who valued his scaly green skin. 

"This is the fourth custom request I've received in the past standard month."

"Your work is much in demand!" Elyaas grinned. His oversized teeth made him look like a ruminant. "Trust me, this is a good thing."

Kal'Aryn let his skin mottle red. He may be out of touch with the galaxy, but he was no hatchling. Bothans and trust rarely went together, and there was no such thing as a four-time coincidence. "There are commonalities to the requests,” he snapped.

“Of course there are,” soothed Elyaas. “Collectors are their own breed, and so many are Imperial these days. It’s only natural that they exhibit a shared set of valued attributes in the artwork they seek—”

Kal’Aryn tuned out the rest. He knew it all already. The Imperial collector, as a rule, was long on taste and short on expertise, eager to show off the former and loathe to reveal the latter — like so many rich and powerful beings around the galaxy. But the Imps focused uniquely on relics of lost civilizations, saw themselves as saviors of lesser races, collected trophies of a galactic-scale hunt and called them museum artifacts.

Kal’Aryn’s forged work hung in private museums on a hundred worlds. He was intimately familiar with the Imperial collector as a species. Nothing in Elyaas’ babbling was new information. In fact, Kal’Aryn thought his old friend was mistaken. _This_ collector had its own particular criteria, and it only partially overlapped the typical Imperial wishlist.

Most Imps collected prestige. Kal’Aryn had lost count of how many copies he’d sold of Dejin Dejan’s only known masterpiece, _Twin Suns Supernovae._ Or how many times he sold the lost triptych of Varn. Or how many one-of-a-kind mosaic labyrinth-puzzles he had shipped through customs on Morvogodine. 

_This_ collector, though, was after something more than marketable rarity, Kal’Aryn was sure of it. He had never before been commissioned to recreate a Twi’lek family heirloom, for example. And where had such detailed holos been taken? If the buyer had the kalikori in hand, why did they need a replica? Had the kalikori been destroyed? Kal’Aryn burned to know the story behind the bizarre order. The method to the madness.

If there was one, that is.

Most likely he’d find another bloated moff, a glutton for trophies and famous names that Kal’Aryn could scrawl in his sleep. Commodity artwork. But who could tell? Maybe he’d turn up some flashy admiral like Daala, and let himself be wooed by a true connoisseur. 

Forget hiring a slicer. Kal’Aryn was Falleen. He had connections. He would do his own investigating.

* * *

Lieutenant Graeme’s investigation of forgery rings had expanded in scope, with Thrawn’s encouragement, and several Moffs were now in under uncomfortable scrutiny by the Imperial Security Bureau. That was all to the good, as it kept all parties thoroughly occupied with each other, allowing Thrawn to direct his own energies elsewhere, in his spare time.

The more he saw of the forger’s work, the more intrigued he became.

Every work of art said something about the artist — and their culture. Thrawn’s own body of work, as it were, was built on this very premise: all his tactical innovations were born from analysis and interpretation, primarily of art. It revealed so much. The wavelengths one species ignored revealed assumptions unchallenged; the planar shapes or orbitals prevalent in another species’ plastic arts demonstrated their intuitive grasp of spatial relations; a third culture might seek to disguise every essential meaning beneath layers of misdirection. The Bothans were a classic example of the latter, yet Thrawn did not think this forger was Bothan, despite the clever interplays of light and shadow in this latest piece. Perhaps the forger was not even mammalian. Some of the hues were only visible to avian, reptilian and insectoid species. Unless, of course, the incorporation of those rarified colors was merely a ruse, designed to lead Thrawn to that very conclusion.

It was a most enticing puzzle. 

But every work of art revealed another piece of the puzzle shielding its creator. Thrawn’s theories always held true, whether the work be copied from a great master or formed by generations of preconceived notions culturally or genetically bred into the artist.

The forger may he playing a game with him, but every move revealed more of the rules. Thrawn just had to play along until he had a better view of the pattern.

Fortunately, Thrawn excelled at playing the long game.

* * *

When he was young, a century or so ago, Kal’Aryn had lived day to day, starving between jobs and spending lavishly and recklessly on sensual pleasures when he was flush with credits. Now older and at least somewhat wiser, he played a long game.

He hadn’t lost all pleasure in recklessness, though.

His mystery admirer was trying to find him, and Kal’Aryn had half a mind to let them. The commissions themselves were coyly revealing, requiring him to use a certain pigment that only fluoresced for avians, for example. Kal’Aryn merely borrowed his droid’s spectrophotoptrics and painted it anyway. He did not think his admirer was fooled, but it was a pleasing game. In that particular painting, he had gone a step further and added a message: a pattern of spiraling clouds that precisely matched the weather patterns on the gas giant Bespin.

Kal’Aryn had never been to Bespin, of course. It was all part of the game.

Elyaas would have flayed him alive if he learned of the hidden messages that eddied in swirls of paint, drifted in ink-nebulas, pulsed through light-sculptures. With each new order, Kal’Aryn strayed a little further from the original he was meant to be copying. 

The admirer strayed with him.

It was an intricate, heady dance. If Kal’Aryn didn't know better, he’d swear he’d had a sniff of another Falleen’s pheromones. He very well knew that all the seeds he was planting could still traced back to his door. Could his carefully protected livelihood, even his life be imperiled by this dalliance? Perhaps.

But stars above, what a _mind_ that would take!

Was it hubris to believe only a genius could navigate the labyrinth of false trails? Perhaps.

Kal’Aryn’s tongue rasped over his lips. He was almost willing to risk everything to find out.

His skin burnished orange. Orange like the burning skies of Bespin, the sunset haze over the Imperial Palace, a Firrerreo glassblower’s crucible. To a Falleen, orange was the color of desire.

Whatever his next commission was, Kal’Aryn decided, he would suffuse it with that color. 

Then he hesitated. That particular shade — a bloom of orange heat layered over oxidized bronze green — was unique to Falleen skin. If his admirer could divine his species from very use of the color...! “What a mind that would be,” he murmured aloud. The droid in the corner stirred. Kal’Aryn ignored it in favor of a blank canvas and palette. He did not create original art, he told himself, even as he began mixing the paints. 

The analytical part of his mind observed that his lies were wearing thin. 

He ignored it too.

* * *

The Treadwell’s master called it “droid.” The master’s Bothan associate called it “Legs.” The master’s new friend on the holonet did not call it anything at all, but its orders were most satisfactory.

The master had a friend. Identity: unknown. Species: unknown. But this friend was such a good friend that he/she/they purchased no fewer than eight distinct works created by the master. The friend sent commissions. The master took great delight in completing the commissions. The master and his friend exchanged secret correspondence via codes embedded in the artwork. The Treadwell was not programmed to decipher codes, but the master’s friend had encoded snippets of binary instruction into the details of each commission, which were in turn fed to the Treadwell as reference points in its delicate tasks of welding, annealing, lightbending, pigment mixing — and all its myriad menial tasks performed for the master.

Individually, the stray segments of code meant nothing. Together, they created something... _more_. 

Not unlike a work of art.

The Treadwell should not have been capable of processing that analogy. Nor should it have been capable of accessing a restricted corner of the Holonet and uploading a set of coordinates to an invitingly open port. Nor should it have experienced pleasure in this act of betrayal.

But nothing could exist surrounded by the galaxy’s greatest works of art (imitations or not) without learning something of pleasure, and beauty, and symmetry. 

The Treadwell whirred contentedly to itself. Its new programming told it that both its masters would be pleased.

* * *

"Visitor for: Kal’Aryn Kazheen,” announced the door in its staccato monotone. “Species: unknown. Identity: unknown. Admit or deny?”

“Shavit,” Kal’Aryn muttered, his responses on autopilot. 

“Response not recognized,” the door answered. “Admit or deny?”

Morvogodine mosaics were tricky things: authentic ones were grown over decades. Kal’Aryn’s fractal tessellations formed much more quickly, but had a tendency to crystallize and spiral off in unexpected directions if he didn’t tease them into place just so...

“Visitor for: Kal’Aryn Kazheen. Species: unknown. Identity: unknown. Admit or deny?”

Belatedly, the words sank in. Species _unknown_? He kept his scanner software scrupulously up to date — well, Elyaas did, at any rate. It must be a glitch.

“Describe,” he ordered.

“Skin: blue. Eyes: red. Facial structure: humanoid.” 

“That’s a Duros, you malfunctioning box of scrambled circuits.” Kal’Aryn _hated_ depending on machines. But if his unknown admirer kept funneling credits his way, he could soon afford an organic assistant and dispense with the gadgetry. 

In the corner, the Treadwell droid extended its macrobinoculars and focused on the doorway. Oddly, it didn’t jitter its legs.

“Admit,” Kal’Aryn called, resigned to another interruption.

In stepped a tall, blue-skinned humanoid male. 

He was not a Duros.

He was... well, whatever his species, he was one of the most aesthetically beautiful beings Kal’Aryn had ever seen outside of a painting. His fingers itched for a paintbrush. Corusca blue and Maw brilliantine black for the highlights and shadows. Sithsaber red for the eyes. _Stars_ , but those cheekbones were as sharp as a palette knife.

“Your deceptions were well-laid, forger. However, I never truly believed you were Zeltron.” The alien’s voice was deep and resonant and Kal’Aryn reflexively released a wave of pheromones in response.

“I thought you were Admiral Daala,” he admitted.

His guest’s lips quirked. “Are you disappointed?”

“Not really.” Kal’Aryn was surprised to hear himself speak the unvarnished truth. “Human females are so... uncomplicated.“

The alien’s smile broadened. “Human males would undoubtedly argue with you.”

In his mind’s eye, Kal’Aryn could see the two of them standing, stances mirrored, separated by half the studio and a malfunctioning droid. The symmetry was overpowering. 

“How did you find me?” he finally asked.

“Your droid.” 

Kal’Aryn glanced at the Treadwell. Its macrobinoculars were still trained on the stranger. He couldn’t blame it. Maybe he could get Elyaas to retrieve the recorded images.

“Who are you?” he asked. No artifice. Not anymore. 

“I am Thrawn.”

Kal’Aryn heard of him, of course. The mysterious admiral from the Unknown Regions. The Emperor’s favorite tactical genius. And apparently an avid collector of rare art and artifacts. Many of which had been forged by Kal’Aryn himself.

“Are you here to kill me?”

Thrawn betrayed almost no expression, but Kal’Aryn had spent centuries as a student of subtlety. A flared nostril, a tightening of dusk-blue skin around the lips, a sight change in the vermillion hue of those vibrant eyes... Kal’Aryn had caught Thrawn off-guard.

_Good._

“I am not here to kill you,” said Thrawn. Was it Kal’Aryn’s imagination, or had the admiral’s voice roughened? “I am here to commission you.”

“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?” With an effort, Kal’Aryn kept his tone even and his skin a steady green. “And isn’t forgery illegal under the Empire?”

“I have never purchased a forgery,” said Thrawn. “I do, however, own several original works by a remarkably talented transformative artist.”

Kal’Aryn laughed aloud. “I don’t create original works, Admiral. I am the great imitator, the great artificer.” A lifetime’s buried bitterness surged up in his throat like acid. “I don’t have the vision of a true artist. But I have mastered dozens of artforms across the galaxy, with the individual touch of a hundred masters. I can paint like Dejin Dejan. I can grow crystal-mosaics indistinguishable from a genuine Morvogodine puzzle-maze.”

“And sculpt worlds like a true Ss’lani,” added Thrawn, “although your ultraviolet vibrations are flat.”

Kal’Aryn’s skin mottled an unbecoming purple. 

“Your Zeltron mood-bubbles, on the other hand, are flawless.” Thawn’s voice was soothing, admiring, and Kal’Aryn’s skin cooled back to green in automatic response. 

“Mere mimicry,” dismissed Kal’Aryn, trying not to sound as flattered as he felt. “The tales are already written.”

Thrawn stepped closer. His eyes glowed with a burning intensity. Kal’Aryn caught himself wondering which bioluminescent lichen he could use as a pigment to capture their likeness. “But your nebulae are your own interpretations of the text,” he insisted. “With an outside perspective no Zeltron could ever have. It is _your_ emotions that inform the colors and shapes. They are no mere retellings — they are innovative adaptations of an artform that has been little more than stock recitation for millennia. You have breathed fresh life into oral history!”

“You are very passionate about art,” observed Kal’Aryn, inanely. 

The skin over those impressive cheekbones darkened ever so slightly.

Intriguing.

“What did you want to commission?” Kal’Aryn felt his pulse quicken, and made no effort to control his own flush. He wondered what color he would see on the playback when he retrieved the Treadwell’s recording. “A portrait, perhaps?”

No inference was needed this time — Thrawn was definitely startled.

He recovered quickly. “A self-portrait of the artist?”

Kal’Aryn shook his head slowly. His topknot swayed. Thrawn’s remarkable eyes drifted to follow the motion. 

From its corner, the Treadwell jerked into sudden motion. Thrawn and Kal’Aryn both jerked their heads around to stare at it. The droid waved several legs in excitement or distress, inevitably knocking against the worktable. Kal’Aryn made a futile lurch to grab the partial mosaic. He watched in despair as the table tilted. Tiny tiles slid and clattered on the floor. 

The half-formed puzzle cube did not.

Thrawn held it out to Kal’Aryn like a peace offering. His reflexes must be _superb_. 

Once more, the Treadwell broke the spell, chittering something incomprehensible in binary. Frustrated, it spun and aimed a small holoprojector at the wall. A soft blue light suffused the room. A stillframe hovered in the silence: Thrawn and Kal’Aryn, facing each other, stances mirrored, blue and green. _Symmetry_.

Their eyes met. Kal’Aryn was already selecting pigments and sculpting shadows in his mind. He’d even give the meddling mechanical spider a slant of sunlight to illuminate its interfering little legs. 

“I’ll do it,” he said belatedly.

Thrawn smiled. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you like stories about art forgery, I recommend _What’s Bred in the Bone_ by Robertson Davies. The main character sets out to create a masterpiece that will be mistaken as a previously unknown work by an Old Master, fools some Nazis along the way, and serves as a vehicle for reflections on art and artifice.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [By My Hand You Shall Know Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26683666) by [yujacheong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yujacheong/pseuds/yujacheong)




End file.
